Quackin Grass Nursery

Quackin' Grass Nursery, located in the handsome town of Brooklyn, CT, is a nursery for all seasons. Nestled in a beautiful, rustic setting replete with historic stone walls we offer a vast array of hardy plants, herbaceous and woody. From Alstroemeria to Zenobia our selection is hard to beat. If unusual plants are your passion we have many rare and hard-to-find gems available. From sun-baked desert to cool, damp shade we carry plants for every garden environment. Remember, too, from the novice to the most experienced of gardeners there is something here for everyone.

When the ordinary is unacceptable there is Quackin' Grass Nursery. Come and be enchanted.                        

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Wayne Paquette is the Owner of Quackin' Grass Nursery

Wayne Paquette began gardening at the age of 4 years and continues to do so to this day. From the school of "hard rocks", his best friend - a trusty shovel at his side, he has learned from the actual experience of gardening, sweat, reading, trying new plants, blood, open eyes and the occasional tear!

Mr. Paquette lived in New York City for many years where he owned and operated Merrill Gardens, an interior/exterior green installation and maintenance company. He occasionally agrees to design gardens for those who request it.

He moved from Brooklyn, NY to Brooklyn, CT in 1999 where he currently resides, opened Quackin' Grass Nursery and lives on the nursery grounds. He is actively involved with the Connecticut Hardy Plant Society, having been this very active society’s vice president for several years. Wayne is also the garden writer for The Villager Newspaper series with his popular column, The Potting Shed. He also continues to wordsmith for the CT chapter of the Hardy Plant Society, has been published in Green Prints as and various other publications and plant societies.

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Why The Name "Quackin' Grass Nursery"?

At a Connecticut nursery some years ago, my dear mother eagerly searched the benches of perennials for something exciting, new or different. Lucille spied an ornamental grass. She lifted it with sure hands, soil-clotted roots trailing from the drainage holes. “Look!” she exclaimed, “They have QUACKIN’ GRASS!” An ear-splitting, condescending roar spontaneously burst from the rather boorish middle-aged woman in the next aisle. Small clusters of soil dislodged from the exposed roots. As the echo of the woman’s bellow dulled to an off-key tinny timbre the clumps of soil fell exploding on a bench below. As I began shaking my head from side to side Lucille’s face transformed from pink to red and then shaded an ungodly purple. The grass nodded its disapproval as particles of soil jumped from the bench committing suicide on the ground below. In that frozen moment with the dangling roots exposed as was my poor mother’s misnomer I quietly informed her that the flat contained Briza maxima: Quaking Grass!

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